The Harvest

I get paid to crawl inside people’s heads. I know, it sounds messy and invasive, but it’s true. I’m not a therapist I am a storyteller, a personal-story harvester. My job is to help people discover the meaningful moments of their lives and guide them as they craft those moments into stories they can share. The goal is not necessarily publication. What these individuals do with the results of our time together is totally up to them. Our purpose is to excavate their memories, memories of life’s moments that have influenced the people they have become. Our quest is to craft the memory into something usable, something they can share. How they choose to share is up to them. The sharing may be done in the most intimate of settings, or it may be simply a personal exercise of reflection, or it may evolve into a performance piece. As their story guide I stand ready to walk beside them on the path they have chosen. I may lead them to the path, but they take me into the wood. Every encounter leaves me changed and enlightened. Long after our time together has passed their stories linger with me, their memories still whisper in my head. Their moments have become my moments. I am one person and yet the memories of many swirl within me.

* * *

Maria was fourteen, her memory was more than fresh, it was current.

“I want to talk about the day I became invisible. Have you ever been invisible? It sneaks up on you, at least it snuck up on me. You’d think I’d be more noticed than ever, nope, I’m invisible. I always had tons of friends and was always invited to every party. Most boys love me, but some girls hate me, because I can steal their boyfriends so easily. Then I got pregnant. I kept it secret for a long time. But some secrets don’t stay hidden, they just pop out for all the world see. At first everyone thought I was getting fat, but they could still see me. Fat people aren’t invisible, but pregnant girls are. It started with the boys first. They’d laugh and flirt like they always had then they’d see me rest my hand on my stomach or pull my jacket over my bump and they’d go stone cold silent. Some of them even walked away mid conversation. I’d be like, “Word – wassup?” They’d just keep on walking. The girls weren’t far behind. At first they were all full of advice for me. Telling me how to get rid of it, telling me how to keep it from my parents, telling me it served me right…yeah, they had all sorts of advice. But when they found out I was keeping it, well, it freaked them out I guess. So, they stopped talking to me. They stopped inviting me to parties. They stopped saving me a seat at lunch. It’s like I have a contagious disease. The teachers, yeah, they don’t know what to do with me either. They tried sending me to counseling at first, but they didn’t like my plan. They were real interested when they thought it was my dad’s or some older guys, but once they believed me about who the father was, they stopped wanting to know more. They talked about me dropping out and coming back after the baby was born. It would be ‘easier’ for everyone. I can finish 9^th grade before the kid comes. That’s what’s easiest for me. Then I’ll have the summer to play ‘mom’ and come back in the Fall. Now, I’m just invisible. They don’t call on me. I got kicked off the soccer team. They never ask how I feel or how I am. Yeah, I messed up, I know that, but invisible? That’s just cold. I wonder if that will ever change, I wonder if they’ll ever see me again. Or am I trapped in some weird gray space where no one else knows how to deal? Gray and cold and empty - that’s what it feels like to be invisible.”

* * *

Joe was an old man, his face covered with the kind of wrinkles you get from hard living in the out of doors. He never did tell me his age, but his story provided some clues.

“I remember a blanket I used to sleep under when I was a kid. It was patchwork. Some squares had military insignias and bars. Some squares had pockets. Some were white and some were navy and some were olive green. It was real heavy and sort of scratchy. I don’t know whatever happened to that old quilt. I wish I had it now. My mother used to tuck me and my three brothers in bed every night under that one quilt. It seemed like the nights we were always cold when I was a boy. It seemed like the wind would always blow. Wind and dust, that’s what I remember the most, it was enough to drive you crazy, the wind blew all the dirt away so the crops wouldn’t grow. The wind blew my father away too, when the crops failed he had to go look for work somewhere. He never came back either. Checks would come in the mail sometimes, but we never saw him again. My mother used to sing about good times coming back someday when she’d tuck us in. Her voice was clear and sweet, like her blue eyes. But those eyes always welled up with tears when she’d tuck us in. Her fingers would run over the patches and pockets and stripes on our quilts as she’d tell us about Johnny, and Richard, and Ray, and Frank. They were her brothers, they’d run off to fight in the Great War. The ‘war to end all wars,’ she’d call it. None of them ever came home, just telegrams followed by boxes of worn uniforms and random trinkets. She made the quilt from their uniforms. I guess she got in a lot of trouble for cutting up those uniforms at first. But times were hard and the fabric was warm and it’s not like anyone was getting any use out of the uniforms. Turns out her parents ended up leaving it out so everyone could see it. There was something special about that old quilt. She said she could just about hear the voices of her brothers when she slipped under that quilt. It’s just about the only thing she took with her when she got married. She told us her brothers would watch over us, just like the quilt kept us warm. Her voice would get all misty when she’d talk about them. I sure wish I could remember those stories. I sure wish I still had that old quilt.

* * *

Thomas was seventy-five, but the memory of that summer day hung powerfully before his eyes.

“We were just boys, just silly carefree boys. It was a classic Maryland summer; you know the kind, when it’s hot and humid to the core. The kind of heat that clings to you, it drips off ya’, ya’ know? It threatens to melt you into mud. I guess it was clear back in the 50’s some time. Yeah, I couldn’t have been more than 11 or 12. My friends and I went down to the canal to swim. We were just going to jump in and cool off, but there was this old man sitting on the bank right where we wanted to get in. He was all dark and shriveled up like a raisin. He wore thick metal braces on his twisted legs. He must have had the polio. Times were different back then. Sure, we’d been taught to respect our elders, but this was a black man. We should have known better but boys seem to soak up the attitudes of their time, ya’ know? This was back in the day when we still had separate drinking fountains, separate entrances, and separate bus seats. Why couldn’t we have separate canal spots too? He was in our favorite spot and that just wouldn’t do. It was our spot, not his, he shouldn’t have been there. So we started scooping up mud clods and throwing them at him. Have you ever seen Maryland mud? It’s rust red and stains your hands and knees. It’s real thick and holds tight to whatever it touches. The mud clods stuck firm around his braces and naked back. When I close my eyes I can still hear the sticky clumps slapping up against his flesh. Truth be told, it haunts me still. In no time at all he was covered. He never said a word, just looked at us with deep set, sad, brown eyes. The weight of that sorrow slumped down from his eyes and across his cheeks, pulling his skin down with it. Everything sagged like mud, his eyes, his cheeks, his timid smile. He pulled and pushed at the mud, smearing it more than removing it. When he stood up and tried to wipe off the mud, we stopped throwing the clods, but not our words.

“Go away old man, we don’t want your kind here.”

“Sure hope you’re not here when I come back with my pa. He’ll teach you a lesson, sure.”

He nodded at us as his started to turn away. Then I guess he didn’t like the way the mud felt all twisted around his braces so he waded into the canal. The shallows gave way real fast and he was in over his head in no time. That’s when we realized he was in trouble. It must have been the weight of his braces that pulled him down. His arms seemed strong enough, but they started to flail as his head slipped under the water. Water running red with mud, water so thick you couldn’t see through it. His head came up once, twice, three times and then he was gone, just gone. We stood there with red stained hands waiting and waiting for him to rise back up, but he never did.

It drove our mama’s crazy, the way we came home wet and dripping with mud and water. They bemoaned how hard it would be to get us clean. We striped off our overalls before we ever came in the kitchen. We scrubbed and scrubbed at those red stains, but they wouldn’t come out. I guess there’s just some stains that never come out.”

* * *

Memories are powerful and they have an incredibly long shelf life. Most of the people I work with end up focusing on thoughts and images they had not considered for a very long time. Something happens during our time together to trigger the recollection. Frequently the renewed memory opens them up to a deeper understanding about themselves and how they view the world.

Many cultures suggest you cannot find peace with a person until you know their story. I have found you cannot dislike someone once you know his or her story. In deed, knowing the stories of those who surround us opens our hearts to forgiveness and tolerance. We become more compassionate through the sharing of personal story. We become more sure of who we are and the values that support us. We become more grounded in seeing the good in this world.

So, the next time you feel frustration rising up within you towards another, take a moment to listen to their story!

Book Review: Tales From a Free-Range Childhood

Donald Davis.

Merely mentioning the name brings smiles to people's faces and images into people's hearts. That is, if they've been lucky enough to hear Donald tell one of his stories. (www.ddavisstoryteller.com)

If you don't recognize the name, you should. Donald Davis is the author of recently released, Tales from a Free-Range Childhood. (Available from Blair Publishing

www.blairpub.com)

Davis grew up in a different age when children were allowed to run more freely and fill their days in ways no one could schedule (or possibly imagine). Two hundred and thirty pages of unique reminiscences of growing up in a different era comprise this unpresumptuous little paper back. You may be tempted to declare you're not interested, but that would be a mistake.

Davis is a gifted writer and storyteller to be sure, but this is more than a simple biography. Davis at once entertains and enlightens. Whether you're reading about broken bones or old cars or old babysitters, Davis is weaving a spell that must be experienced to be believed. With perfect timing and delightful imagery he invites you into his world. Yet, while sharing tales uniquely his own he opens up a place of unique memory within your own heart. You'll be reading his stories, but you'll be remembering long forgotten moments from your own life.

This is the kind of book you'll read again and again as you share it with family and friends. That's when the magic happens. No matter who you share this book with you're sure to get lots of great memories and moments shared in return. Conversations will open up and for a moment you may just think you're back on grandma's front porch, just shooting the breeze with loved ones.

So what are you waiting for? Curl up with a good book!

Tales from a Free-Range Childhood by Donald Davis.

http://www.blairpub.com/

Somebody's Watching...

Check out these pictures! They were taken in 1948. The boys in the picture were 18 years old and just graduated from High School. I’m humored by the boys in these photos, both by their youthful exuberance and their charm. (Ignore the fact that one looks like Jake Gyllenhaal – I don’t know who he is - a Gr. Grandfather perhaps?!!)

In the first picture one boy is making an obvious statement by holding up his clear glass soda bottle while his companions hold up dark bottles. In the second picture he’s making an obvious statement by thrusting out his gut and holding the dark glass bottle to his lips. Either picture tells a tale.

These pictures were taken 62 years ago. The boy in question is not even alive any more. He’s left a legacy of children, in-laws, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Each of which have made their own assumptions about the fluid being consumed when they have seen these photos. Truth is, we’ll never definitely know what those boys were drinking and it doesn’t matter. But the suppositions will never die.

There’s an old 80’s song, recently been made popular by Geico Insurance, which contains the line, “I’ve got the feeling, somebody’s watching me.” The song creeped me out when it first came out and the big-eyed little stack of money doesn’t lessen that creepy feeling for me.

Awhile ago I heard Kim Komando (http:// www.komando.com) busting out some rather startling statistics. According to her, 80% of perspective employees check Face Book on every job applicant they receive. Kim went on to say that 1 in 5 teens have texted or emailed some form of nude picture of themselves to others. In addition, 2 in 5 have been involved in some form of explicit or inappropriate texting.

I couldn’t help but contemplate the possibilities those statistics conjure up.

If two 62-year-old photos could stir up assumptions - what on earth will all of those random texts and photos stir up in someone else’s future? There won’t be two old photos in the possession of a handful of people; there will be 100’s of photos for the entire world to see with the mere click of a button.

We live in a world where beauty queens and Olympians are destroyed due to random old photos suddenly surfacing. Yet, still we gleefully post, text, and send away. Even if we’re not being flippant with our images, the possibilities of someone else snagging a picture of you and posting it online are pretty good.

Back in the day there were “mother networks” in every community. They knew whose kids were up to what and they were quick to report to (and support) one another. My mother had such a network. She made George Orwell’s, “1984” prediction of the existence of a “Big Brother” that would watch and record our every move completely conceivable. I swear my mother had spies, she’d know what I’d gotten into before I’d even pulled in the driveway. I learned the best way to avoid the stress was to avoid the inappropriate behavior, because she’d hear about it. However, in my wildest dreams, I never considered that the future “Big Brother” would be a beast we feed and groom ourselves.

Let’s face facts, this technology isn’t going away, those images are out there, never to be retrieved. So, what to do?

IF you don’t want a picture of you posted on the world-wide-web engaged in some questionable activity, then avoid the activity.

IF you don’t want your future boss to know about inappropriate antics you pull in your leisure time, then consider changing how you spend your time.

The pictures will be posted - you’re not magical enough to avoid that.

The only thing you can control is what you choose to do, where you choose to go, and how you choose to be seen.

“I’ve got this feeling…somebody’s watching…” You!

Out Standing in the Field

It's no secret I love random!

I drove past this field above Swan Valley, Idaho and just had to stop to take a picture. There are no words of explanation really. Just a table, chair, and laundry basket in the middle of nowhere. Now there may be a thousand possibilities for why this is out standing in the field. And believe me, I'd love to hear your ideas, but in the end we'll never really know for sure. It makes me giggle, actually. I can't help but wonder if there's a camera nearby or some kids watching while hiding in the underbrush.

It reminds me of an evening I was driving through Bone, Idaho. I saw a wallet lying in the road with some obvious cash sticking out. I was just about to stop and retrieve it when the setting sun illuminated the fishing line strategically attached to the wallet. My eyes darted along the line only to see two guys plopped in old metal chairs leaning up against the wall of a hole-in-the-wall store (fishing pole in hand) just waiting to tug that line. The joy on their faces was unmistakable.
Life is such a delight! It never ceases to amaze me how creative some people get in living out their humor. A table in a freshly plowed field. A wallet tied to a string. A street sign for a road named "Why Worry Lane" where very few people will ever pass. (Back roads above Palisades, Idaho)

How can you not chuckle to yourself? It just makes the day a little brighter. So to all those randomly humorous people out there who will never know me by name - Thanks for making my day!

Thirty Years!!!

They say time flies when you're having fun.

Perhaps that's why the last thirty years have flown by!

I've been holding hands with the same guy for thirty years.

Thirty years ago today I married my best friend. We were oh so young, and quite the doe-eyed optimists. We didn't know all that life had in store for us but we were absolutely sure we wanted to face it all together.

If someone had sat us down that morning and told us every joy and sorrow and trial and triumph we were going to face together I would have never believed it.

Life is certainly not dull.

Yet, today, I am still married to my best friend. I recognize this is an incredible blessing and gift. We still like each other's company best. We are still absolutely sure we want to face life together. How cool is that?

I am pleased to report that there has never been a day in the past 10,950 that have not included a shared laugh and our sharing the words, "I love you." I still get a kick out of the fact we have kissed over every state line we have crossed.

I absolutely love what we have created together. Our growing family is such a delight for us. They share our passions for God, nature, laughter, and each other's company.

Yep, it's a good life. I'm a happy wife. And I can't wait for the next thirty years.

Going…Going…Gone!

I passed this random tree on a back road in Utah last month. There’s no homes for miles, but for some reason numerous people decided to toss their shoes into this tree. The tree and the shoes captivated me. Why? When? Did they do it all at the same time, or did one person start it and then others followed? Did they even really know each other? Did they all go away bare foot? Are they still? Have others driven by, pulled over, and thrown their own shoes into the mix? I’ll never know, and that’s part of the allure. It’s a mystery and I love mystery.

However, there are those who don’t like mystery. In deed, some are driven crazy by it. As a result, people have suggested I can’t simply disappear off Face Book, as it would be a mystery and thus lead to unending speculation.

It’s true I am leaving Face Book. Let me explain.

There is an ancient Arabic proverb, which states, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” I could spend all day debating that little nugget of wisdom. However, there’s really only one reason I bring it up and that is to suggest that in the Face Book world there may be a place for a new proverb.

‘The friend of my friend may be my enemy!’

In a world where employers are checking out employees on Face Book you simply can’t be too careful. My profession frequently takes me into the presence of minors.

Whether mainstream or at-risk, students deserve safety and protection. As a result, running background checks on me (the resident storytelling teaching artist) are a pretty common part of the hiring package.

I can’t control, nor am I accountable, (nor do I want to be) for the actions of my friends or their friends. Yet, any inappropriate actions of any of my friends or their friends etc. may be linked back to me and consequently affects my reputation and my ability to be hired. When it comes to the safety and protection of minors you can never be too careful.

I’ve struggled with how to handle this. I like being in contact with my friends! However, I need a degree of separation when it comes to my online presence. Thus, I am leaving Face Book.

You can still keep in contact with me, and I hope you do, by following and commenting on this blog. Sign up for the RSS feed or email notification. I don’t know how consistent I’ll be, but I promise to give it a good try. Any time you post a message to me here, I will receive it.

However, if you’re under the age of 18 I won’t respond back. It saddens me to take such a drastic measure, but I am protecting us both. After all, isn’t that what good friends do?

Be safe, be well, and check in from time to time!

Teresa Clark

New Trick for an Old Dog

They say you can’t teach on old dog new tricks. So explain this.

I hate tomatoes – fresh ones anyway. I love sun-dried tomatoes. I love stewed tomatoes – especially in soup. Ketchup is my friend. Salsa is awesome. However, fresh, raw, sliced tomatoes trigger my gag reflex. They always have. Because of this I have sworn off such offerings for nigh on 50 years. I've just slipped the nasty things off to the side.

Until….

I started making fresh salsa about a year ago. It’s actually more like pico de gallo (or ‘teresa de gallo’ as my daughter’s call it). But I’ve played around with ingredients and seasonings until I achieved perfection. Turns out the best and freshest version has diced, raw tomatoes in it. Not too hard to accept because the nasty, slimy centers are still removed. It’s not like I started liking tomatoes all of as sudden.

Until….

We went to visit my son and his wife and she served us BLT’s. (Bacon-Lettuce-Tomato Sandwiches.) I had been watching my husband obsess over BLT’s all month. He had made it look so delicious I had told myself I was going to try one next time I was offered one. And suddenly, I was being offered one. So, I ate it – and guess what?

I LOVED IT!!! My husband has made me three more in the past two weeks. Isn’t that laugh-out-loud funny?

So yes, you can teach an old-dog new tricks! You can make a new discovery every day. You can face your fears a little bit at a time until you master them. You can delight in being wrong!

I’m hungry…I think I’ll go have a BLT.